“Very sore, Tommy.”
“Ay, it will be. Dessay you lost a lot o’ blood.”
“I believe I did,” said the steersman.
“Well, you’re a big, strong fellow, and it’ll do you good. But, I say, mind I has that hankychy back!”
“I won’t forget, mate,” said Eben, quietly. Then to himself, “I shan’t forget this night.”
“I don’t like Eben Megg, and I don’t like smugglers in general,” Tom Bodger; “but human natur’s human natur’, even with old King’s pensioned men as oughtn’t to; but if Eben comes to me with that there hankychy and slips a big wodge of hard Hamsterdam ’bacco and a square bottle o’ stuff as hasn’t paid dooty into my hands in the dark some night, what am I to do? Say I can’t take it? Well, I oughter, but—well, he arn’t offered the stuff to me yet.”
The other occupants of the boat were thinking deeply during the latter part of the sail. Aleck was wondering what his uncle would say, and Eben Megg thinking of his future, and he was startled from his reverie by Aleck, who suddenly said:
“What about the press-gang, Eben—do you think they will know you again?”
“Hope not, sir; but I’m not very comf’table about it. Someone set ’em on—someone as knows me; and, worse luck, they’ve got some of our chaps.”
“But they haven’t caught you.”